Marque of Caine – Snippet 31

Riordan suppressed an impulse to rush out into the water in
an attempt to disrupt or chase off the geel.
It was a pointless reflex here, one that had been evolved for, as Thlunroolt
put it, a different reproductory paradigm. But as unnecessary and inappropriate
as it might be, it kept surging up whenever Caine was not consciously
combatting it. At least conversation and questions were a distraction. “So
how many eggs remain now?”

“Almost all. They are hard-shelled, laminate
structures, not unlike your ballistic armors. Few predators can breach them.
Once they hatch, though, the spawn are completely vulnerable. To survive, they
must swim across the pond to where the Quickeners wait in the grottos.”

“Do they fight off the geel?”

“There is no need. The geel avoid the smell of mature Dornaani.”

“Well, that’s convenient.”

“No: it is a matter of evolutionary balance.”
Thlunroolt’s mouth–visible now–twisted slightly. “There is ironic
reciprocity between the geel and my
species. When we are but spawn, they eat us. But when we are mature, we eat
them.” The once-placid surface of the pool was now thoroughly hazed and flecked
by their frenzied feeding.

“So, do the Quickeners, um, just scoop up the spawn and–?”

“Our young must demonstrate their own capabilities and
their own choices. As I explained yesterday, they will choose among the
Quickeners that line this side of the Breeding Pool. But they will have to
follow that Quickener out upon the bank when he leaves his grotto at the end of
this day.”

“The spawn are already able to walk?”

“Some. Most wiggle their way out and only then discover
the use of their legs. But those which cannot are left behind for the waiting geel. This is our way.”

“So even once they’ve reached the other shore, this is
still a dangerous day for them.”

Thlunroolt dangled a pair of noncommittal fingers. “Here
among the First Calling grottos, it is more dangerous for the Quickeners.”

“Why?”

The old Dornaani gestured into the thick vegetation at their
backs. “The predators you heard earlier.” He raised his head, neck
corded by long, wrinkled folds. “They lurk nearby.”

Riordan shifted until his right flank faced the Pool and his
left, the tangled cluster of goldenrod trees and day-glo green tubules that
screened them from the deeper forest. “In the early days, those predators
must have taken a terrible toll on your Quickeners.”

“They still do.”

Despite the warm air, Riordan felt a sudden chill. He
examined his surroundings more closely. The Breeding Pool’s long use had
smoothed or displaced any hand-sized rocks that might have once been there, and
no weapon-worthy deadfall presented itself. “No one guards the Quickeners
while they’re dancing in the grottos?”

“It could be arranged, of course. But it is not
traditional, so they choose not to.”

“‘They’?”

“Those who come to reproduce in Rooaioo’q’s natural
environment.” Thlunroolt waved a hand at the banks around them. “The
Quickeners and Bearers are all here of their own accord. Many come from distant
systems. I do not oversee their actions. Nor do I function as their Mentor. I
merely maintain the facilities and ensure the continuity of the tradition. Some
of those who breed here stay on. Most depart.”

“Okay, but why risk being eaten by predators?”

“There are as many reasons for accepting this risk as
there are those who come to experience it. Most have become so committed to the
concept of this traditional experience that they are not willing to modify it
in any way. Many others believe that lessening any of the risks in this process–to
the spawn, the Bearers, or the Quickeners–changes the secretions released, and
so, produces subtly altered younglings. They assert that making the process
safer also makes the surviving spawn–and so, us–less resilient and vigorous
than in ancient times. ”

So
part of the reason they come here is to play some primal game of Russian
Roulette? Riordan glanced into the brush: no sign of movement. But it
was so thick that he probably wouldn’t have detected a creature hiding within
leaping distance. “Any idea how close those predators are?”

“I cannot say. They are patient, silent.”

“But you still hear them?”

“No: I smell their musk.”

Close
enough to smell them? Great.

“They will not attack until the first of the spawn
begin approaching the grottos and the Quickeners begin their kinesthetic
repetitions.”

“And what about
us?”

“We are not in the water making the sounds that attract
the predators. They will not be interested in us. Of course, if one of the qaiyaat is particularly ravenous, it may
take a second opportunistic kill before starting to gorge. We would be a
convenient second meal.”

So
the longer I sit here waiting like a respectful guest, the greater the chance
that one of these qaiyaat is going to
grab me before I find a weapon. Keeping a woefully inadequate rock cocked
back in his right hand, Riordan parted the foliage with his left, gritting his
teeth against the primal terror of pushing through a blind wall of dark,
unfamiliar brush.

A few meters on, enough light filtered through the goldenrod
trees and tube bushes to illuminate the forest floor in rough patches. He found
a promising, arm-length piece of deadfall. It crumbled in his grasp, rotted
through by the pervasive moisture. Shouldering his way deeper he noticed a more
sizable rock underfoot, wrestled an obstructing fern aside with both his
strength and body weight, but discovered that it was a completely useless
shape. He peered into the thickening brush, wondered if it was worth going any
furth–

Behind him, there was a splash and then a keening wail which
cut off as abruptly as it started.

Damn
it! Riordan, already smashing back along the gap he had left in
the brush, had never heard a Dornaani cry out in desperation, was chilled by
the similarity to a human child. He burst through the last tangle of bushes in
a spray of leaves and tubules, squinting into a sudden flare of daylight. He
saw a shape rising out of a crouch at the edge of the water, hauled back the
rock in his right hand as he prepared to block with, and probably lose, his
left forearm–

The shape was Thlunroolt’s.

Riordan’s pulse was still loud in his ears. “You’re
okay?”

Thlunroolt stared at him. “If I was not, I would no
longer be here.” He shifted his stare to the rock in Riordan’s hand. His
mouth twisted slightly.

“A predator struck three grottos over. I suspect we
have lost Glinheem, may his final enlightenment be full.” The old Dornaani
looked after the discarded rock, then back at Riordan. “You are impetuous.
But then again, you are human. I see why Alnduul has become fond of you.”
He turned back to the water, watching and listening.

Listening
for another of his own kind to be grabbed, like a wide-eyed frog plucked off a
lily-pad. Christ, how can he just sit there? Caine took a deep breath, reminded himself that this wasn’t
his planet, wasn’t his species, and, most of all, wasn’t his fight. Because
fighting was not what the Dornaani did in this situation. But that silent
recitation of the facts didn’t still the urgent heartbeats straining against
the back of his sternum, straining for release, for action–

Caine realized that his breathing had become faster, deeper,
that he was leaning forward, toward the angular shapes of the huts and shacks
that he had seen yesterday. He nodded toward them slowly. “Those
buildings: are there any . . . tools . . . in them?”

“Yes, but not many.” Thlunroolt’s eyelids edged
down a bit. “And none that you would find useful.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am familiar with your species. You wish to fashion
weapons.”

Screw
the subtle approach. “I do. Can you blame me?”

“I do not blame you. I merely reiterate: those of my
race who come to this place wish it to be as it was. This means eschewing any
tools, and any actions, which separate them from that experience.”

Riordan nodded. “And I will honor those constraints.”

“The only constraint upon you is that you may not enter
the Breeding Pool. Other than that, you may come and go as you please. There
are no limits on your freedom of action.”

Riordan’s field of focus tightened until he was only aware
of the old Dornaani’s face. He carefully repeated the phrase: “There are
no limits on my freedom of action?”

“That is what I said, human. You are free to do what
you will.” Thlunroolt turned away. Riordan looked back toward the huts.
Their sides were fashioned from thick logs: useless. But where the thatched
roofs protruded out past the doorways, they were propped up by sturdy, narrow
shafts of wood set in the ground. Ready-made spears. Caine started to rise . .
.

And then sat again, slowly. No. He could leap up, fashion
weapons, go hunting the qaiyaat who,
unopposed, would no doubt kill many Quickeners this day. But in so doing, he
would also destroy the experience for which these Dornaani had traveled dozens
of light years: to breed as their first ancestors had. To ensure that their
spawn would possess a greater measure of the vitality that was slipping swiftly
from their race. To live a real experience, not some virtual imitation of one.

Caine realized he was still sitting very erect, tense,
poised for combat. He forced himself to exhale, to sink back into a sitting
position and acknowledge that here, his instincts could only mislead him. He
had been invited to observe, not intervene.

If Thlunroolt heard his restlessness, or noticed the
stillness that followed, he gave no sign of it.

Leaving Riordan in silence as reason and reflex continued to
struggle within him.